The corridors buzzed with unrest as servants moved in hushed clusters, their eyes darting toward every passing noble. Guards stood stiffer than usual at their posts, hands resting a little too tightly on the hilts of their swords. The air was thick—not with incense or desert heat, but with the weight of something unspoken. Whispers clung to the stone like smoke: of poison, betrayal, and a queen who had risen from the brink of death to unmask a man of God.
In the royal council chamber, the fire in the hearth crackled, but its warmth did not reach the men seated around the long table. The flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, dancing like ghosts behind the high-backed chairs of the kingdom's most powerful lords.
King Baldwin stood at the head of the chamber, his white tunic immaculate, his expression unreadable. He looked every inch the monarch—composed, commanding—but beneath the surface, tension coiled like a drawn bowstring.
